Caterwauling

Palm Beach sunset

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I love that little mobile. I picked it up for two bucks in Key West. Makes a lovely sound when the winds are fierce, like they have been the past few days.

It hasn’t felt like it’s been 91 degrees (which it has), thanks to the gale-force winds. Seriously, can a house drop on an evil witch and give me something to smile about, please?

An old colleague had a baby last night. I didn’t even know she was pregnant, although we did commiserate via Twitter a few months back how the moments after peeing on a stick are the longest of your life. I just didn’t have any idea that, while mine was negative, hers wasn’t.

I give her credit, too, because I think she’s doing this on her own. (Her daughter? So friggin’ kyoot!) For all my, ah, promiscuity of years past and rebellion against family and tradition, I have to say that I probably would have had some spawn by now, were I in a functional relationship.

Lord — ME, traditional? *faints*

But yeah, when I inadvertently found myself in the “family” way almost exactly a decade ago, I thought about doing it on my own. For a minute. But really, even though I wasn’t ready to get married, I would have been willing if it were a two-person tag-team operation.

Unfortunately, the only person stepping up to the challenge was my mother, and the last thing I wanted was for her to be around every minute of every day. (Hah. Sometimes I wonder whether my current living situation is my eternal punishment for that.)

Alas, here we are a decade later. And I would be lying if I said I weren’t jealous of my friend. I am happy for her and happier still that I am not the one with the diaper and burp-cloth budget. But I would also be lying if I claimed I didn’t want the whole “happy family” thing. You know, with an awesome dude and a toddler-sized kid rather than a 53-year-old one.

I was thinking back to the years I was in social work, how I hated the fact that we were putting kids in kinship care … throwing them right into the fucked-up family lives that ruined their birthparents in the first place. Now, I’m eye-witness to the fact that parents who screwed up actually make for excellent grandparents. But I really resented being forced to seek funding for parenting classes for incarcerated birth moms when I was far more worried that the children were going to turn out like their parents thanks instead to their grandparents.

I’m not saying my mom is bad. But the same family situation that I FLED in 1992 is what I live daily now. Minus three other generations crammed into a rowhouse a fraction the size of my apartment, but still. Close quarters with people sharing your air doesn’t breed much beyond resentment.

But in thinking a bit about my grandmother, I remember more of the good things. She adored Elizabeth Taylor. ADORED. She owned her Passion perfume set. (I never liked it.) But then when Dame Elizabeth released her White Diamonds, my grandmother immediately bought me a bottle … which I LOVED.

I’ve since become a perfume connoisseur like my grandmother, because of that. And in my grandmother’s memory, I donated to the Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation today.

Anyway, I don’t know where the hell this entry is going. First from babies, to families, to grandparents, to perfume and to fatal illnesses. Hm. Looks like a typical five minutes inside my brain.

I guess I’m telling the universe, in no uncertain terms, that I want more. A good man. Another residence for the extra-terrestrial being from outer space. A loving home. A cute dog. Money enough for classy perfumes. Non-batshit paycheck providers. And serene sunsets that precede peaceful evenings and even-prettier sunrises to which I can look forward.

Plus, happiness enough that if any of the above is missing, I won’t even notice.

Palm Beach sunset

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Just blogging solely because I like this photo. No other reason. I mean, really, what could have POSSIBLY happened in the eight hours since I last blogged?

DSCN2092

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I took a bunch of sunset photos tonight. I never really use my zoom lens but damn, it was worth it.

I can’t figure out what the objects are that are blocking the sun. I imagine they’re either billboards or the standard dueling signs that point you toward 95 north or south. Miami or West Palm Beach? Either way, the roads are filled with old people and foreigners, but there’s always room for you.

I’ve been super-emotional today. (Every sentence in this entry starts with “I.” Deal with it.) Perhaps it’s because I’ve forgotten my meds for a few days. Or else it must be *that* time of the month, which I don’t even calendar anymore because I got hit with four cycles at once, then nothing for two months, and now who the fuck knows.

I’ve had a weird week. It’s been busy but it hasn’t *felt* busy. The past two weeks were exhausting and aggravating, to say the least. But this week has downright flown. As a dear friend reminded me, I’m a hard worker at heart, and it’s not really work when you’re not clock-watching every 10 minutes on the nose. (Thank you for that reminder. I needed it!)

The freelance job I love is trying to budget to bring me on full-time. God willing, that will happen. I don’t know that I’ll let the other stuff go, or let it go right away, but it’s the first time in a long time that I didn’t accept a job offer and go throw up and ask God to, please for the love of You, let me have chosen right.

The extra-terrestrial being told me, yet again, how MEAN I am today. She said, five minutes ago, “Can we go get a roll of paper towels?” And I said, simply, “No.”

Now, her car works just fine and I know I have a dollar in my wallet if she wants it. But I just wasn’t in the mood for a field trip at 7:55 p.m. Especially since I still haven’t gotten to Apple for my software upgrade. And that’s a good half-hour drive away. And did I mention I look like the Wreck of the Hesperus?

Yeah. Just because *someone* curled her hair and put on makeup 10 hours ago, as she does every day, in hopes that I would offer to take her for a ride doesn’t mean everyone else has anything more than a scrubbed butt. (And we’re under a water-conservation warning. The Intracoastal Waterway that you see in the photo? I could WALK across and barely get my calves wet.)

Anyhoodle, showering is about all I manage to do these days. I have a tan, my hair is almost pure blonde, and I really don’t much care about anything else. Where is there to go when you’re conserving money?

While I was out trying to take photos, of course the local poltergeist came out to haunt me. She has all damn day to sit on the balcony, but of course she waits till the two times I run out for fresh air. (I’m out of smokes, so fresh air it is.)

I got called “mean” outside when she told me to zoom in my camera on the man she’s declared to be my “husband” as he was at the communal grill. I said Jesus H, woman. I never want to be around anyone I date 24/7, 4 weeks a month, 12 months a year and five years and counting like I am around her. Who the hell would want to be near me when they have to have her surgically attached to my other hip? Christ, I don’t want to spend this much time with people I LIKE, you know?

She declared she’s pleasant, unlike me. I informed her she’s unbearable, incorrigible and passive-aggressive.

I am at that point where, if someone put a gun and one single bullet in my hand, it would be a HARD decision whether to use it on her, find my ex-boss’ evil sidekick (I’d say that’s the brains of the operation but it’s more like the least-useful opinion with the loudest voice), or aim at my own temple. Really, it’s a toss-up.

What brings me joy, though, is the fact that the cat refuses to clean her ass and insists on scooching her filthy crack all over the houseguest’s white sheets. (Which overjoys me, until the houseguest whines as she did just now, “You hate me that much? You’re mean!”)

In any event, with my beloved cat’s shitty (ahem) hygiene, it shows God really does love me after all. So maybe I’ll put down the hypothetical gun and just get my little kicks on Florida State Road 806. (Where the hell is that, anyway?)

Ah, well. Maybe tomorrow will be better. I’ve got lots of work to do this weekend, and I’m marching in the local gay parade. (Hoo-RAY, Sweetie!)

Christ, if that’s what it takes to get me out of the house, I will take it. Sign me up for every damn event parading through this one-whore town!

Hmm.

I was thinking about how much I hate working in general, and I attribute it to being forced to “make a living.”

And while I have a couple of project going, right now there’s really only one I enjoy. Perhaps it’s because the work comes easily to me. And perhaps THAT is because I’ve spent years learning the exact stuff that they need (and pay) me to know.

I was even thinking about billing another client less because I haven’t been able to give them the time commitment I agreed to. Which I could compensate for easily by doing a kickass job (and putting in the hours, well, after hours). But meh. I’m undecided there.

I do want to kick my own ass for that — I need to work my butt off now to prepare for leaner times, right? For when the next idiot employer wakes up with their tampon in the wrong hole and decides that my cheerful face has to go. And believe me, nobody likes scrimping and praying for the next check any less than I do.

But it lies in the new debate in my head, making a living versus making a LIFE.

Now, I really should be trying to make every available dime now if I expect to make a life. I get that. But I’ve sacrificed so much quality of life over the years — whether intentionally or circumstantially — that I’m just pretty much over spending any portion of my day feeling like I’m in prison or simply pandering for a paycheck I know I’m more than worthy of receiving.

Things have been challenging at home these past few days. I keep hearing how mean and nasty and snippy and horrible and terrible and hateful and awful I am. And sure, I have my moments. But as I finally exploded today, does the houseguest really think she’s a fucking joy to live with? Am I supposed to be honored to be the one responsible with keeping a roof over her head for the rest of her life? When do I get a goddamn break already?

And she was most floored at me asking for a break. (Good. Lord.) I said come on already — this is like an arranged marriage. Who the fuck is supposed to spend this much time with anyone, let alone someone they never chose to?

(It’s an ongoing debate over choice here — she always says I told her I “wanted her.” OMG, kill kill kill. And if I did, which hah, did I sign up for five years to life? It’s a sentence, not a choice.)

Like, right now, I need to go to Apple to pick up some software. I could order it but my landlady keeps my packages hostage and loses them. (I love it here.) So I could order online or else I could take the ride. But I have to report my whereabouts at all times, and wait till Princess gets ready because she won’t leave the house without me on her own. And if I go somewhere, I have an instant co-pilot, whether I want one or not.

Reminds me of when I was a kid. I was never allowed to stay at home alone. Even when I was 18. I always got dragged alone for the ride.

It also occurs to me that I have been providing for myself — housing, clothing, food, etc. — since I was 18. My houseguest has never paid rent a day in her life, and she tells me I’m mean when I say I need a week off from having her underfoot. Nice, eh?

Anyway, I know too many people with misplaced tampons (or sticky-side-up maxi pads — I never could tell which was their particular problem) read this and get overjoyed at my misery. But damn, I’m actually sitting here NOT going to the store because I don’t want to make it another fucking family event, like every minute of every day already is.

I don’t WANT to be mean, or exasperated, or whatever the adjective of the day is. I want to be happy. Or, at least, not disgusted and frustrated and fucking suicidal. Seriously, I am planning to get a tattoo (of Bon Jovi, of course) since every day is so painful and I’d like to have ONE of those days result in something artistic and lovely.

Anyway, I can’t have work be a stressor right now. I never wanted it to be. And it surprises the fuck out of me that one of my jobs is a fucking joy to behold. I hope my contract gets renewed at that one. I really do. I’m actually trying to find ways to do extra stuff there, as opposed to killing myself to produce the bare minimum in other places.

Not that I want to rely on one income stream. We already learned where that leads you. God forbid you have talent and drive and ambition and ability when people just don’t happen to like you because you’re not as miserable and marginally talented (i.e., at canning people) as they are. I never dreamed I’d find myself out of a job. Seriously. How goddamn stupid ARE people?

Anyway, it’s forced me to focus on making a living. But with that crisis averted (for now), I want the life part. I don’t want anything else that stresses me out like bad jobs and worse home lives do. I know it’s not like I survived a tsunami or anything like that, but haven’t I endured enough … at least for now?

My dear friend SilverBlue said something on Facebook last night that I not only retweeted, but I want to repeat here for future reference.

It was that if others would spend more time improving their own performance than telling others how they can improve theirs, so much more would get done.

Made me think of the Ghandi quote that you must be the change you want to see in the world. Good point.

Don’t get me wrong — if you can help people to achieve their goals (or the company’s goals because isn’t that what makes the world go ’round? Who gives a shit about your goals?), it’s your job to help them.

Otherwise, it’s like hiring someone as an editor, then getting mad when they spend 75% of their time focused on improving the editorial and educating the writers so they turn in better copy in the first place. And then getting madder that your list of unrelated goals that the person was never equipped to handle, and that you don’t INTEND to equip the person to handle, doesn’t get achieved according to your vision or on your time schedule.

Not that THAT has ever happened to me. Oh, no.

And I *never* wondered about others’ contributions unless they reported to me. But now that I think about it, WTF *did* other people contribute other than a demonic presence that feasts on souls?

Ahem.

Same thing happens to me at home. I’ve been doing fine with the houseguest, despite being together 24/7 for the past three months. But yesterday I just wanted to kill myself. Because it’s another case of someone being so focused on what I’m doing (or what I’m NOT doing, or not doing RIGHT) to help them that I thought, hey, maybe if you focus on your shit and I focus on mine, I won’t be in a bad mood all the time. How about that?

Yeah, keep dreaming. That’s like waiting for people to pull their head out of their butts and get their priorities straight in the office. Never dreamed I’d get canned for improving editorial and mentoring staff. But hey, now I spend my days immersed in writing, so life has gone on just peachily.

Anyway, I figure God stepped in when it came to saving my career. He’s welcome anytime He wants to contribute to the home situation. Meanwhile, I’m just using everything I’ve ever experienced and channeling it into a book series.

The funny thing about my book series is that a ton of stuff I wrote as early as 1988 has come true, like I predicted the future or destiny really does manifest itself. So last night in my notes, I killed off a whole bunch of asshole characters at fairly young (like 40-ish) ages. Is it too optimistic to keep an eye on the obituaries just for fun?